


Up In Our Bedroom, After The War

by FoundInTheStars



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gamora (Marvel) Lives, Gamora needs a hug, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Quill Feels, Peter Quill Has PTSD, Peter Quill Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 20:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19471789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundInTheStars/pseuds/FoundInTheStars
Summary: On nights like these the stars would usually pacify him, but tonight they left only hollow reminders of his insignificance among the infinite universe. His lack of purpose. His failure to fulfill a simple promise.Particularly, the one made over the grave of his own mother.





	Up In Our Bedroom, After The War

**Author's Note:**

> More angst, because apparently that's what I do best! I intentionally leave Gamora's return vague because I am not entirely certain how they would manage to accomplish such a feat. Hopefully, fingers crossed, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 will answer that question for us!
> 
> Until then, enjoy this quick one-shot!

He was still shaking.

His hand jittered at his side, acting as if it would rather be put to use holding onto something. 

_Someone._

Peter sat in his seat in the Benatar’s cockpit—his rightful seat, mind you. It had taken Rocket some time to accept this fact, but he seemed happy to give up the captain’s chair if it meant getting his family back. It was a long five years, after all.

Five years. Peter was taken aback by the statement. The second he felt his body drift away in a cloud of dust and the second his eyes jerked open after five years felt as if they were one of the same. 

Peter felt too guilty to admit to the relief that overcame him as he felt the chill of the snap run through his core. His one hope as Mantis and Drax dusted away was that he would join them as well. He was too tired, too defeated. Peter’s will to fight had slipped away once he realized that he was completely and utterly unable to exist in a world with no Gamora.

When they had all returned, _five years later,_ (Peter found himself repeating this to himself with the hope that it would stop sounding foreign on his tongue) his guilt only quadrupled. With the realization that Rocket had been left on his lonesome with Nebula as his only company, Peter felt like he had let his teammate down for hoping to be one of the vanished—even if he had no say in it. It was hard not to feel crummy when Rocket had taken to wearing his d’ast scarf all of the time. It only reminded him of how lost Rocket must have felt without them all. 

That, however, was not the particular reason Peter was up at such an ungodly hour. His mind was still reeling over another one of the relentless nightmares that had been plaguing him for a little over a month. The intensity of the dream had him biting his cheek in an effort to draw enough blood to remind him of his corporeality. It was nights like these where he felt like he would catch himself drifting away in another cloud of dust.

Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself back on Knowhere, his hand gripped around his favorite blaster as he aimed it at the love of his life. Sometimes it would be the bubbles. Other times he would watch her face twist up in horrified agony, falling to the floor in a puddle of dark green.

Peter scrunched up his eyes and ran his palm down his face. He chose to ignore how the shaking appendage came back wet with previously undetected tears. He leaned back into the chair and stared off into the vacuum of space.

On nights like these the stars would usually pacify him, but tonight they left only hollow reminders of his insignificance among the infinite universe. His lack of purpose. His failure to fulfill a simple promise.

Particularly, the one made over the grave of his own mother.

No. He tried not to let his exhausted mind get the better of him. Those thoughts had tormented his brain for nights on end, and stripped him of any real rest. Peter would not allow them to consume him now. Not when Gamora was finally back. Not when she was sleeping in _their_ quarters, all on her lonesome.

Peter (as well as half of all living creatures) had been back for nearly a month when the Avengers hesitantly informed the Guardians of the Galaxy that Gamora could be brought back. Peter didn't quite understand the logistics of it, but he thought it better to not ask questions when geniuses promised him that they had a way to bring his girlfriend back. He might have understood it better were it not for his brain feeling too mushy and sleep-deprived to divulge into the mystery of the Soul Stone.

“Peter?”

His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. It still took his breath away, having lived through a month where he was certain he would never hear it again. 

Gamora stepped into view, the starlight beaming softly on her radiant skin. He would have appreciated it more, enjoying the way she made the stars feel like home again, were it not for the fear still lingering on her face as she caught sight of him. She bit her lip slightly and leaned against the co-pilot’s chair. 

“I woke up and you weren't there,” she said. It was a fact, but Peter could hear the open-ended question that laced her words. _Why’d you leave?_

More guilt poured in at that. He was supposed to be helping her heal. They were supposed to be cuddled up—him whispering that everything was going to be okay into her ear.

“Shoot, I’m sorry Gamora. I- I didn't mean to leave you alone… I—”

Peter bit back a cry. 

He had left her _alone_. She was the one that was brutally murdered and yet he couldn't keep it together and fight through his stupid nightmares. Gamora had only been back for about a week. She was still healing and she needed him. Peter was convinced he was the worst boyfriend in the entire galaxy.

“Hey,” she said, just as soothingly as always. “What’s wrong?”

The question made him physically ill. So, so many things were wrong. It made his head spin to even begin to comprehend it all. The most sickening part though, was that _she_ was worried about him. The concern in her voice was like a punch to his gut. Peter couldn’t fathom why he was the one being comforted when she had been through so much.

“I’m fine.” Peter almost choked on the words. He leaned his head back in his chair before turning it to look up at her from where she stood. 

Gamora sighed and sat down beside him.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

Peter shrugged.

“Just couldn't sleep. I’m good,” he said. He would not give her another thing to worry about.

“Peter,” she said with deep caution in her tone, clearly not accepting his response. 

“Yeah. Okay. Just a stupid nightmare.” He broke the eye contact they had been holding and stared back into the stars. There was no use lying to her, not when she could see through him like he was made of glass.

They hadn’t done much since Gamora returned. It was in the team’s interest for all of them to take time to rest. Gamora and Peter had spent that time curled up in bed, neither one doing a lot of talking. They had each other and for once words didn't sound as appealing to Peter as they usually were. Speaking meant reliving shitty memories, and he didn't want to break down. Not now. 

Peter was ready to catch Gamora when she fell apart, but she never did. She hardly spoke about what had happened at all. He was worried she was keeping everything bottled up for his sake. 

Peter couldn't blame her. He was doing the same thing.

“Peter, you’re exhausted. You need to rest.” 

He knew it had something to do with his physical appearance recently. Since he hadn't gotten actual sleep in about a month, his under eyes were flushed with a deep purple hue that made him resemble a dead man. Peter’s hair was almost always messy and his eyes were often bloodshot and rimmed-red. 

So maybe he wasn't in the best condition ever, but he was fine. Completely fine.

“You need rest too! I’m fine! You were the one that—”

This time he was unable to stop the half-sob that quivered from his lips. Unshed tears that had laid dormant in his eyes began to stream down his face.

“Peter,” she said once more. Gamora reached out and cupped his cheek, guiding him to face her. “Talk to me.”

“You died! You were dead!” he cried out. “Thanos—”

He frantically gasped for air to keep from vomiting at that name.

“H- He killed you. He killed you and _I_ was supposed to. I promised you that. I promised and failed and then everyone vanished and Rocket—”

“Is okay,” she interrupted—grabbing his wrists and forcing him to look into her eyes. “Everyone is alive now, Peter. We’re okay.”

The feeling of her hands wrapped tightly around his wrists helped pull him back into himself. Peter was more grounded, but he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't fall into a pile of ashes.

“We will be,” she said after a moment.

“I’m sorry.”

Gamora shook her head fervently.

“No, Peter you did nothing wrong. I never should have asked you to do that.”

She sighed and shut her eyes.

“I never should have made you swear on your mother.”

As much as Peter tried to hold it back, the pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a guttural sob. The last thing he wanted was to make Gamora feel bad for trusting him with such an important task, but the mention of his mother was the drop of water that broke the dam.

Gamora grabbed onto his shoulder when he began to double over. She spoke softly into his ear, whispering something that he didn't quite catch as he cried—the pain of a month's worth of terrified numbness crashing forward. 

Though his addled brain could not decipher her words over the splitting headache that erupted as he broke down, the sound was soft and lured him towards awareness. He felt a hand pry open his tense fist and interlock their fingers. 

“I’m right here.”

“You’ve been so strong.”

“Breathe."

The words fizzled in and out as he sucked in a few hiccuped breaths. He was no longer sobbing and the raging panic slowed to a dull roar. The adrenaline had begun to wear off, leaving him even more exhausted than before.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m fi—”

“Peter, if you say you're fine one more time I swear I’ll lose it,” she said, though there was no anger behind her words. 

“Sor—”

“And stop saying sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. If you had succeeded in killing me, like I had asked, they wouldn't have been able to bring me back. I’m the one who should be apologizing, Peter.”

“I was foolish for underestimating… _h_ _im._ I should have realized that he would've had the stone by then. There was no point in me asking you to do such a thing. I have only brought you pain in asking you to do so,” she said, leaving a trail of her tears to stream down her face.

“I would’ve done anything you asked me to,” Peter said, a certain genuineness in his voice that was no doubt the truth. He couldn't let her think this was her fault.

“That is why I love you, and why I hate myself. I keep hurting you,” she cried.

“I hurt when you’re hurt. You’ve never hurt me ‘Mora.” His tears flowed more freely now, though the sobs had dissipated.

“Look at you, Peter.”

Peter didn't need a mirror to know what she was referring to.

“I’ve let you run yourself to the ground trying to take care of me every second I’ve been back! You obviously need help yourself. How long has it been since you got some _actual_ sleep?”

“This isn't about me!—”

“How long?”

Peter sighed and ran his palm down his face.

"Three... Four weeks?”

“A month? Peter Jason Qui—”

“I fell asleep for about an hour the other day and I’ve been resting the whole time!” He didn't like where the conversation was headed. The time he spent mourning her death was done and over with. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it with her.

“You haven't slept through the night in a whole _month_ Peter,” Gamora growled with frustration. He could tell it wasn't aimed at him, but her tendency to want to protect him could sometimes be scary.

“Wait, no. That’s not true! Rocket made Mantis—”

“What?” Gamora interrupted. He didn’t need to finish his sentence for her to know what he was implying. 

“I thought you said you would never let Mantis help you sleep,” she said, suddenly a mix of concerned and confused.

_But I mostly use it to help my master sleep. He lies awake at night, thinking about his progeny._

_Blue._

_Piercing, stabbing electricity—tearing apart his insides until he’s nothing more than a glorified battery for all eternity._

Peter gradually allowed his body to relax before the onslaught of memories threw him into fight or flight mode. He took several deep breaths and relaxed his tense muscles before responding.

“I didn't have much of a choice,” he muttered.

Peter was furious at Rocket for making that call. It had been two weeks since they had returned, and Peter spent most of his time in his quarters—downing the cheapest and strongest booze available. He knew that his team was worried, but couldn't find it in himself to care. It was so unlike him, he knew, but the empty space in their bed tore apart his chest and obliterated the optimism his team was accustomed to.

Rocket might not have reacted the way that he did were it not for Quill’s Zune which had been left untouched ever since he returned.

The team had stormed into their room, demanding he put down the alcohol and go to sleep. Peter, of course, drunkenly protested—explaining that he could not bare to close his eyes. He sobbed out Gamora’s name as Mantis reluctantly stuck out her hand and commanded him to sleep.

They didn't exactly have many options left.

It took some time for his anger to wear off at that. Peter had woken after sleeping for two days, aching to make room for the anger which helped to drown out the devastating numbness inside of him. As much as he enjoyed the newfound emotion—he knew that their intentions were good, so he didn't give them too much trouble for it.

They didn't try to force him to sleep after that. In return, Peter made sure to come out of the room every once in a while to appear like he was still providing his fragile Terran body with sustenance.

“Why didn't you tell me?” she said, and Peter was thrown from his thoughts. “I could have helped you.”

“That's the problem. I’m supposed to be helping you.”

“That’s not how we do things Peter. We help each other,” Gamora said. She smiled and looked at him endearingly.

Peter nodded.

It was true. They did go through everything together. When Peter had been coping after Ego, he often helped Gamora through her own various nightmares. She dreamt of his death for weeks after the fact. He had been there for her during that time too, even while he was battling his own inner demons.

It felt good to help her, even when his insides felt broken and he thought he’d never recover. Being there for her made him feel useful. He felt like he could finally breathe again.

Maybe that’s what it was like for her.

“I’m going to be okay Peter,” she said. “You will be too. But let me help you. Please.”

“We’ll help each other.” He smiled, rivulets of tears catching in the corners of his grin. 

“Exactly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gamora and Peter have a tendency to self-blame. Fortunately, they are there to do that together as well.
> 
> I hope I didn't imply that either one of them were to blame for any part of Infinity War or Endgame, I just wanted to convey their unique struggles with the events. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed! If you did please make sure to leave kudos and any feedback at all!


End file.
